


Whumptober 2019

by CoffeeShopAuthor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 10 Years, Angst, Drabble Collection, Episode: Sherlock (TV) Unaired Pilot, It's a bird it's a plane no it's SUPER WHUMP, LITERALLY, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pilot!Verse, Whumptober 2019, Young Sherlock, late to this fandom by 10 years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:02:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeShopAuthor/pseuds/CoffeeShopAuthor
Summary: Sherlock-themed Whumptober 2019 drabble/ficlet collection. Some fics based on show-canon and some from the unaired pilot AU.





	1. Shaky Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This prompt is from the unaired pilot, in which Sherlock is drugged by the killer and taken to 221B at the end of A Study in Pink. I adore the unaired pilot more than life itself - I can already tell a good portion of these drabbles will be based more on the character portrayal and setup from the pilot.

Despite what his new acquaintance had told him earlier in the evening, this was not John’s idea of “more fun” than helping to pay the rent, not a fucking bit. 

He had bolted after the cab and started swearing at the moment he lost sight of it. His already frayed nerves, tired and twitching after a solid five hours of being up past his usual bedtime, ached with the exertion of running after the psychopath that kidnapped the other psychopath. 

_ Think, John, think! _ He paced back and forth in the road and rubbed his face with his shaking hands. He needed to figure out where the cabbie would take Sherlock. He needed _ clues_, he needed _ evidence_. 

He needed to make a deduction. 

John leaned against a building, after being chased out of the road by London traffic. He closed his eyes and tried to envision himself as Sherlock, that clever man with his clever blog. 

Things he knew about the killer: Serial killer - method of each of his kills were identical. Victims all took the poison willingly, by their own hand. All died in a stranger’s house, no sign of coercion. 

John lifted his head as a bolt of thought struck him. No signs of coercion. Then how come Sherlock needed to be shoved into the car? There were no signs of sedatives in the victims from what the inspector had told them at the scene. What made Sherlock different? 

_ Serial killers; very hard to catch. You need to wait until they make a mistake. _

Drugging Sherlock was a mistake. The cabbie saw him as some sort of threat that needed to be subdued. If the killer made the mistake of drugging him, he would make another mistake. That mistake would lead him to Sherlock; just like the pink suitcase lead Sherlock to the women’s phone. 

What happens next? The killer gets his victims in the car - then he takes them to a location. What location? Where would he take Sherlock? 

John felt his feet picking up and running down the street before he realized where he was running to; 221B Baker St. Sherlock must have given the cabbie his address. Even if that wasn’t where the cabbie would take Sherlock, he would go to Baker St. nonetheless. A man so threatening you had to drug him? Who gave you his address? Certainly you would go there, even just to peak at the lair of the big, bad detective he was so afraid of. 

John slowed his pace to a fast jog as he dialed the emergency line. “I need police at 221B Baker Street!” John yelled at the poor operator who barely had time to open the line. “I-I think he’s in trouble. Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! That’s his name! He was just kidnapped and I need help, at Baker Street!” He was gasping for breath and his voice shook from nerves. The operator probably thought he was openly sobbing. 

Before the operator had time to respond, John hung up the phone and prayed that he said the address enough times. He picked up a cab not long after that and promptly didn’t pay him when he dropped John off a block from Baker St. He darted from the cab and ran right to the door, where he paused. 

Nail marks on the door frame but no sign of forced entry; door was open. Whoever came in had keys and someone went in unwillingly. If the killer had the keys, he had Sherlock. 

John paused at the door. Entering, no matter how quietly, was still a risk. What if the killer was armed? What if he was forcing his victims to take the pills at gunpoint?

The thought of a victim at gunpoint brought back a painful memory. 

Afghanistan - one year prior. His medical team had been ambushed and were being held hostage by the opposing rebels. The closest he thought he’d come to dying. He was instructed to bind someone’s leg, which was shattered and bleeding. He worked fast with his tourniquet and team, not sure if giving medical attention would result in freedom or death. Just when he thought he would reach his final mortal judgement, a sniper shot crashed through the window. On the briefing on the way back, he was told that rescue didn’t want to bust in, fearing the medical team would be shot and the terrorists would flee. 

John backed away from the door, then followed the second story window to its counterpart across the street. An office building, the front door open with a security guard falling asleep at the desk. He smoothly made his way into the building and took the stairs. On the second floor, he made his way through various offices, checking the windows. 

The third private office he entered, he saw him. Slumped over the table, Sherlock was conversing with a man who had to be the killer, sitting at a table that had been set up near the couch. The man had his back to John and did not appear to be armed, as far as John could tell. 

John pulled out his service pistol, his hands quivering as he checked the magazine, which fell out of his fingers. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, no, fuck,” he whispered to himself over and over as he picked up the magazine with trembling fingers. He jammed it into the pistol and tried to rack it. His nervous hands slipped on the slide again and again. He lined up the barrel sight with the edge of a table and leaned his bodyweight into the gun, forcing the slide to rack using the leverage. He stumbled to his knees and opened the window. 

Sherlock was still alive, but he had a pill squeezed between his fingers, swaying with whatever sedative was still in his system. 

Like a switch had turned in John’s head, watching the man across the street look helpless, lost and drugged, John’s hands stopped shaking. His breathing evened out. He lined up the shot. 

_ Sherlock, you have to move, _ he prayed. 

Just then, Sherlock slowly started to lean to his right and John saw the lineup. The best he could probably do in one shot was wing the killer. 

He inhaled, hoped that Sherlock Holmes was a lucky man, and squeezed the trigger on the exhale.


	2. Explosion

He clamped a hand over John’s shoulder, scanning the floor. 

“It’s wired,” Sherlock said, watching the thin lines run between the tiles of the warehouse floor. 

“Of course it’s wired,” John cried. “It’s Moriarty!” 

“Thank you for restating the obvious, it’s very useful.” Sherlock quipped. 

“So how are we getting out?” Sherlock hated the tremor in John’s voice. John only sounded like that when he feels cornered and quite honestly, Sherlock felt he had heard that one too many times. 

“The floor is rigged for weight balance, in addition to certain tiles being an automatic detonation.” 

“What are you saying? I don’t see anything.” John waved his flashlight over the tiles. 

“ _ Look  _ at the floor, John,  _ look at it _ .” Sherlock took the flashlight and pointed to the tiles. “A grenade doesn’t explode from the pin being pulled, it explodes because of the impact. Stepping on certain tiles is the pin, you can see the raise in certain tiles that have mechanisms under them.” 

“So if you step on it, it won’t detonate,” John figured out, to Sherlock’s delight. 

“Exactly. But _ leaving _ the tile with the improper weight will cause it to detonate. He wants us to figure out how much weight is needed to be able to leave the tile. 

“How are we going to figure that out without blowing ourselves up?” 

“We don’t,” Sherlock said before leaping from the safe zone in the back of the warehouse and onto one of the tiles. 

“Sherlock!” John bellowed. 

The sheer desperation in John’s voice made Sherlock look up, to see a panicked John standing in the safe zone. Sherlock frowned. Strange; he should have heard the click of the mechanism locking. This tile didn’t reach its weight requirement. 

There was a record scratch sound. A pause. John’s hyperventilating filled the echoing room. Then a waltz starting playing over a sound system. Sherlock’s heart sank and he ran the flashlight over the tiles, looking for the pattern. He sighed. 

“John, I need you to come here,” Sherlock said in a calm, slow voice. 

“Sherlock what is he doing  _ why are we here GOD I CAN’T DO THIS _ _!_" John paced in the safe zone. 

“John, look at me,” Sherlock raised his voice. John turned to him again. Sherlock took a moment to pause and breathe. “I need you to join me on this tile. It hasn’t reached its weight.” 

“Are you sure? What if it’s a trap?” 

“I know it’s a trap, it’s a trap that requires you to join me on this tile unless you want it to detonate.” Sherlock held out his hand for John. “You have trusted me before and I need you to trust me again.” 

John froze before taking Sherlock’s hand and jumping onto the tile with him. The mechanism clicked into place and John exhaled and gasped for air, clinging onto Sherlock. There was barely enough room for the two of them unless they remained chest-to-chest; which is what Sherlock knew Moriarty wanted. 

“What now?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock. It was the first time Sherlock felt he was looking into John’s eyes. No, he had _ seen  _ John’s eyes before. Understood the heterochromia, not unlike his own; but he felt in that moment that he was really  _ looking _ at John’s eyes. He realized how deeply blue they were - how striking his genetic mutation was around his pupils. 

“We dance,” Sherlock hoarsely replied. 

“He wants us…” 

“To waltz.” Sherlock slipped a hand around John’s waist. “I know which tiles are rigged, let me lead.” 

“Jesus,” John said in a shaking voice. “How do we get out?” 

“He’s laid a path with the tiles; standard ballroom waltz. As long as we follow the pattern on the floor, we will cross to the door without detonating the ones that are rigged to blow as soon as you step on them.” 

“While reaching the weight capacity for the others.” 

“Precisely.” 

“Ok, it’s been forever since I’ve danced.” 

“I’ll guide you. Hand on my shoulder.” 

John placed one of his warm hands on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock had to will himself to not nuzzle it between his shoulder and his cheek. John placed his other hand in Sherlock’s and Sherlock gave it a little squeeze. 

And then stepped back.

They moved to the tile behind John. John whimpered and practically climbed up Sherlock with the raw nerves as they heard the tile click. Sherlock exhaled with relief. 

“Alright. Follow me.” 

With that, John and Sherlock slowly waltzed across the room, Sherlock guiding John onto the right tiles. Once they got into a routine, Sherlock found himself looking more at John than the floor. John was looking up at him and Sherlock’s breath was taken away. 

Sherlock always knew he was fond of John. Whether the emotions were reciprocated or not was unknown. Sherlock knew that a part of him was firmly made of John Watson’s DNA, grafted into his chest, in the cavity where Logic and Reason had removed a heart-shaped tumor in the name of Science. If it was his weakness - his disease - his error - then Sherlock welcomed his terminal diagnosis with open arms. Arms that were currently filled with a very warm and very much  _ alive  _ Watson. And that was enough for Sherlock. 

So they danced. John’s breathing turning from scared to confident as his shoulders relaxed and he leaned into Sherlock’s guiding touch, trusting him. John’s eyes - John’s  _ beautiful _ , multi-colored eyes gazed up at Sherlock. Sherlock felt the overwhelming need to take John waltzing somewhere; somewhere that didn’t require them risking their lives. Somewhere they could talk while dancing, half-yelling over loud music being played by a live band. 

Sherlock had half a mind to contact Mycroft and ask him when the next government black-tie event was happening.

Then Sherlock felt a tile under his feet that didn’t click with their combined weight. His muscles locked up in panic but John pulled himself free from Sherlock’s grasp, falling onto all fours as he gasped with relief. Sherlock took a quick look at the floor. They had made it across to the other safe zone. His chest felt cold without John pressed against it. Sherlock felt an ache at the missing sensation.

His cellphone rang. Sherlock answered it without looking at the number. 

“Oh, really, that was beautiful. I almost got teary,” Moriarty drawled. 

“There was no point in that except for your own entertainment,” Sherlock answered, searching the ceiling with the flashlight for the cameras. 

“While it was indeed a fantastic show, I did actually have reasons,” Moriarty said. There was an annoying pop - ugh, he was chewing gum. “Don’t think you had the eyes for it, though.” 

Sherlock threw the light over the floor again. It dawned on him slowly. 

“Oooh, did I just see a lightbulb?” 

“What, what’s he saying?” John said, trying to stand on shaking legs. 

“Half the floor was blank; there were no explosives, just the weight mechanics,” Sherlock said lowly, looking at all the unwired tiles. 

“What does that mean?” John said. 

“It means you weren’t paying attention,” Moriarty sang into Sherlock’s ear. “It means-” 

“It means we didn’t have to dance for as long as we did,” Sherlock said a little louder than needed, to drown out Moriarty’s response. ‘

“Oh!” John cried out, throwing his hands into the air. “So he just wanted us to dance for him, like puppets!” 

“Tell your bosom friend there that it means a lot more than my personal satisfaction,” Moriarty said. 

Pop. 

“It means I know what can distract Sherlock Holmes.” 

A click somewhere on the floor. His body, moving in slow-motion. He grabbed John and pushed his shoulder into the door, clutching onto John’s jacket as they went hurtling through the warehouse doors, getting as far away as possible. 

The explosion roared in Sherlock’s ears. He clutched John’s head to his chest, covering him as they dropped to the ground. John fisted his hands into Sherlock’s dress shirt as their ears rang. Sherlock smelled smoke, and heard fire crackling behind them. He also smelled John’s shampoo and heard John’s uneven breathing against his neck. Breathing. Alive. 

And that was enough for Sherlock. 


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorian AU/Abominable Bridge AU
> 
> *Trigger warning for heavy drug use*

****

Watson removed his hat and gave a small bow to the woman at the door. 

“Pardon me, madam; my friend is in your establishment and I mean to collect him.” 

She raised an eyebrow before standing aside and letting him in. “He’s in the corner, past that curtain there.” 

Watson pursed his lips. “You knew who I was here for?” 

“He told me to watch for your arrival. He said you would be here at seven.” 

Watson opened his pocket watch and frowned. “Well, surely he is not in the best of conditions now. He is off by ten minutes.” 

With that, he ambled into the opium den, coughing at the heavy smoke in the room. He stepped over the bodies of men, glassy-eyed and blissed out. He pulled back the curtain and was faced with his lanky companion, who was draped over plush pillows, one of his legs dangling off of the couch. 

Holmes lazily looked up at Watson and Watson’s heart broke ever so slightly. Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth across John’s face and he knew it was because the detective didn’t know where to look. 

“Never thought of you as the social smoker, Holmes,” John said in a low voice, as to not disturb the other patrons. 

“Never could afford the accouterments of this type,” he replied, his swaying hand holding up the long pipe. “See here, Watson, it is the most interesting heating method-” 

“And what of your seven percent solution?” John said curtly, returning his hat to his head and adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. 

“Oh, it wasn’t doing what I needed it to do,” Sherlock sighed before dropping his head to the pillows again with a dramatic ‘thunk’.

“And that was?” 

“Free my mind of the boredom caused by quaint English living.” 

John knelt at Sherlock’s head and wiggled his arms under Sherlock’s torso, adjusting him into a sitting position. “I’m taking you back to Baker Street, Holmes.” 

Sherlock turned to look at John, trying to muster up a serious face. He then reached out and stroked John’s cheek before playing with the hair by John’s ear. “You need to visit a barber,” Sherlock drawled, his quick tongue buried under the mass amount opium’s effects. 

John pulled Holmes’ hand away from his ear and snatched the pipe away from his other. Sherlock didn’t even seem bothered. John marched up to the hostess and returned the pipe. 

“Mr. Holmes will be leaving now. I assume he already paid?” 

The hostess nodded before giving a wave to Sherlock, who was attempting (and failing) to stand up. “Tell him we look forward to seeing him on Friday.” 

John spun on his heel to gape at Sherlock. “Friday? Holmes, how many times-” 

“Thank you, dear,” Sherlock nodded towards the host before stumbling into John’s arms. 

He staggered into the streets while John took most of his weight, an arm wrapped around him. 

…

Watson sat across from Holmes and listened to his heavy breathing, while Holmes stared into the fireplace, his mind elsewhere. 

“How many times, Holmes?” 

“Only a handful.” 

“Right, that’s it.” Watson stood up and went over to the writing desk, covered with Sherlock’s personal items that he hadn’t cleaned up in ages. He opened up the desk drawer and pulled out the syringe case and small bottle of Sherlock’s solution. There was already a full dose in the syringe, waiting for its next use. He went over to Sherlock. 

Holmes blinked several times before smiling up at Watson and rolling up his shirt sleeve, baring his left elbow, the soft inner flesh bruised with frequent injections. He gazed up at John with drugged-up delight in seeing his favorite device held in John’s hand. He waited expectantly. 

John went over to the fireplace and squeezed down on the syringe, the cocaine sizzling on the logs as it vaporized. 

“No, no!” Sherlock cried but found his body too heavy to move. 

“I’ve had enough of this!” John barked. “I’ve had enough of your habits you claim are motivated by your boredom! I shall bear witness to this abuse no longer!” 

“John,” Sherlock wailed as he watched John open the bottle and start to pour it out. “Please, you are hurting me; my heart breaks from your actions!” 

“And your nose will be next!” John roared, throwing the empty bottle against the brick backing of the fireplace. 

Holmes remained quiet, gazing at the fireplace again with deep hurt written across his face. John put the syringe in the case again and put it in his doctor’s bag. 

“I’ll make us some tea,” Watson said quietly. 

“Will you not retire?” Holmes grumbled. “It is quite late, dear boy.” 

“It’s not even nine in the evening,” Watson said, peering at the same mantle clock that Sherlock was observing. 

“Oh, really?” Sherlock mused. “Hm.” 

Sherlock’s head rolled back onto the armchair and he closed his eyes. “Could have sworn it was later. Look how dark it is, Watson.” 

Watson looked out onto the dark street below them, stars shining brightly over London. 

“Goodnight, Watson,” Sherlock called into the flat, forgetting how close behind him Watson was standing. 

“Rest, Sherlock,” Watson said, patting the top of Holmes’ head, which instantly brought a smile to Sherlock’s face. “Rest.” 


	4. Human Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late and a dollar short for these challenges, but they are getting posted nonetheless!

“Shit!” John howled, crumpling at the knees. “Fuck! Fuck!” 

Sherlock finally left the panicked body lock-up he was in and fell to the floor with John. He looked up to find the killer gone, a flicker of a shadow behind an alley lamp before disappearing. 

“John? John, are you alright?” Sherlock said, trying to get John to look up at him. 

“No, Sherlock - I’ve been fucking shot,” John snapped. 

Sherlock pulled his hand away from John’s lower back, looking at the dark liquid on his glove. 

With fast hands, Sherlock pulled out his phone. 

“Please make this good,” Lestrade grumbled on the other end. 

“John’s just been shot,” Sherlock said, speaking loudly over the moaning man in his lap. 

“What? Where? Where are you?” Lestrade was suddenly more alert and Sherlock was fairly sure he heard a crashing sound behind Lestrade. 

“We’re at 221B, we were ambushed outside. I’ll try to get him inside-” 

“Don’t move me!” John cried out, slapping his hand against Sherlock’s arm. “Don’t move me, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock stammered into the phone. “Send someone out, we need med - medical atten - John needs help, now!” 

He hung up the phone and grabbed onto his friend. “An ambulance is on its way, John, let me move you inside and -” 

“No, don’t. It hit my lower back and it might have hit my spine. I don’t want to risk making it worse by moving. Just leave me here.” 

Sherlock tightened his grip. “I’m not leaving you, John.” 

“Sherlock, we need to talk,” John said, trying to keep his voice even. “I can’t see all of it but I know there is a lot of blood. If they don’t get here soon, I-” 

“Lestrade will be here, I promise.” Sherlock shook his head, trying with every part of his body to tell John how much he didn’t want to have this conversation. 

“If they don’t get here, I want to tell you how much I love us. How much I have loved every bit of what we have done together,” John’s voice became shaky and he looked up at Sherlock with tears spilling out of his eyes. “Every single bit.” 

“John, please, it’s going to be alright.” 

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you,” John said, clutching onto Sherlock’s coat. “And I’d take a million more bullets for you.” 

“You should never have taken the one,” Sherlock scolded, wrapping his arms around the smaller man. He unwrapped his scarf and rucked up John’s shirt as best as he could. By this point, John was basically in Sherlock’s lap, curled up against his side. Sherlock pressed the scarf to the wound, trying to take a peek at the damage while moving John as little as possible. 

“It missed your spine,” Sherlock confirmed. 

“No exit wound, it punctured an organ or two,” John said, sniffling back the tears. 

“You don’t know that, you don’t know-” 

“I know what getting shot feels like, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sat back a little on his heels and looked down at John. “You said you loved me.” 

John gave a strained laugh. “Yeah, um. I do. I love you; a lot.” 

Sherlock bent his head forward and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead. “I love you, John Watson. I always have.” He sat back again, unable to avoid the tears spilling down his face. “Once Lestrade gets here-” 

“Sherlock,” John said, his voice whisper soft. “Don’t - don’t talk about that. Let’s just be...us. Right now.” 

Sherlock bit back a sob and nodded his head. 

“Heard that clatter above my room again; Mrs. Hudson really needs someone to come fix those pipes. I’ll never get a full night’s rest again if she doesn’t.” John gave a soft chuckle, trying to keep his voice normal - fine - like he wasn't massively bleeding all over the concrete. 

“I’ll recommend a nice plumber I helped; found his cat for him. It was under his stoop all along. He was still eternally grateful.” 

John laughed again. “Typical. Right under his nose the whole time.” He looked up. “Sherlock, the stars. How lovely.” 

Sherlock looked up and then back down at John. “Not as lovely as you.” 

John smiled and then gently closed his eyes and sighed, putting his head against Sherlock’s chest. 

The wail of a siren slowly came into range and Sherlock squeezed John’s shoulder. “Wrong day to die, John.” 

John gave a sigh of relief. “Guess I’m going to have to follow up on everything I said to you.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “There is nothing to explain or follow up. Come now, John, let’s get you situated.” 


	5. Gunpoint

_ “If you’d been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?”  _

_ “Please God, let me live.”  _

…

Smoke was thick in his mouth, gunpowder burning his nose, almost like sulfur. Would be quite fitting, as this was John Watson’s hell. 

In many of these situations, John was calm. His field hospitals were used to surges of injury and death during raids. His fingers were quick to stitch and calm in cleaning off surgical tools. 

To say that this transport had gone sideways was to deflect from calling it a total fucking disaster. Medical professionals were on their way to a new hospital when they were ambushed. 

John was sitting in the back when gunshots rang out, hitting the driver first. The jeep swerved before turning on its side, sending John and the rest of the passengers flying out of the car. Once he was able to orient himself, his head pounding (concussion; left-side dominant, moderate - his doctor intuitions diagnosed within the minute), he felt pain bloom over his left arm and shoulder, rolling waves of pain reaching up to his neck and down to his ribcage. 

He did his best to look down at his chest, past the bulk of his uniform, to see a small seepage of blood on his left shoulder. If it got through the layers of his uniform, God only knows what the rest of his chest looked like, or where the entry wound was exactly. 

John felt his throat tighten as the scene around him dissolved into chaos. 

_ Screaming, yelling, trauma, guns, frozen, stuck, wounded, panic.  _

“I...oh Jesus, someone, help!” Watson cried out, trying to crawl towards the turned over jeep or other vehicles that had pulled over to defend themselves from the attack. 

“Watson!” he heard a voice cry out. 

John turned towards the voice, to see a band of three men running towards him. One of them he recognized as Bill Murray, a nurse. The two other men, guns raised, covered Bill as he ran towards John. Bill grabbed one shoulder of his uniform while one of the soldiers grabbed the other shoulder. They dragged him to cover behind one of the other convoys as Bill tried to rip open the front of his jacket. 

“Watson, it’s in your left shoulder, there’s a lot of blood.” 

There were strange voices over their shoulder and the two men that arrived with Bill threw their hands into the air. John saw the rifle muzzles before he saw the men wielding them, focused on the direction the rifles were pointing; which was everywhere, as the men were using them to gesture at the small group. 

For the second time that day, Watson was dragged along the ground, this time by the armed men. A gun was painfully jammed into his temple as he was dragged along the sand and gravel of the road. He tried to struggle as his shoulder exploded with pain again, watching as Bill and the men received the same treatment. 

“Oh God!” Watson cried out, not realizing that he was hysterically sobbing until he was forced to take a ragged inhale. He did his best not to panic under the pressure of seeing the gun so close to his face, but he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. “Please God, let me live!” 


	6. Dragged Away

“This is ridiculous!” Sherlock said, blocking the doorway with his imposing frame. 

Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look. “I know, Sherlock, but these are not my orders. This came from higher-ups.” 

“Then your higher-ups need to reevaluate the evidence!” Sherlock banged his fist against the wall. 

“Sherlock, don’t,” John said pointedly, shifting uncomfortably in the handcuffs as Donovan held onto the metal cuffs tightly. 

“They _ have  _ reviewed the evidence,” Lestrade said. “As far as we can figure out, it had to be John at the scene, he’s one of our top suspects.” 

“But he wasn’t! Let me look at the scene - I can clear his name-” 

“And we can’t let you do that; conflict of interest. I already take a risk by letting you onto any crime scene, I can’t let you take over this one too!” 

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by his lapels. “This has Moriarty written all over it and you know that, Inspector.” 

“And we can prove it after we bring in the suspects that the department wants,” Lestrade responded after pushing Sherlock away from him. 

“I can’t let you take him,” Sherlock turned to his worst method of conflict resolution - ugh - begging. 

“I’ll be alright,” John tried to say, although his voice was shaking and his was still twitching in the handcuffs. 

“No!” Sherlock yelled, but Anderson and Lestrade had already grabbed Sherlock by the arms and was pulling him out of the doorframe. 

Sally pushed John towards the exit and Sherlock saw the panic in John’s eyes. He dug his heels into the carpet and strained against Lestrade’s hold. 

“John, I’m going to help, I’m going to fix this!” Sherlock vowed, shaking Anderson off and reaching out with his left hand, straining to grab any part of John and keep him there in the flat. He caught the edge of John’s jacket and latched on for dear life, as the distance between their bodies grew apart, Anderson joining Lestrade again in an effect to restrain the consulting detective. 

Sally pulled on John’s wrists until John was wretched back from Sherlock’s grasp. Sherlock was dragged back by the inspectors as he uselessly tried to reach out to John. 

“I promise you!” he called after John, who was being dragged down the stairs by Sally and a couple other officers. “I promise, John!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought it would be interesting to do a little drabble for the idea of John being framed by Moriarty; which I feel fits pretty well within what canon Moriarty would do to Sherlock.


	7. Isolation

He crossed his arms and took a deep, calm breath. This was not the first time he had been put in this situation and it was illogical to panic; even a six-year-old Sherlock could determine that. 

However, this did not help the claustrophobia that was slowing creeping into his mind as he struggled to move in the tight closet space. 

The younger of the Holmes boys had found himself getting on the bad side of one of the school’s antagonists, a young Peter Adams. For being ten, Peter was surprisingly strong and also still a few inches taller than Sherlock, although Sherlock was sprouting like a weed and was the tallest in his class by a metaphorical mile. 

Although Peter was impressively intimidating, there was nothing more imposing than the young Holmes quietly making a comment on your dormitory lifestyle, or your relationship with your parents depending on the sweets they sent to the boarding school. Sherlock should have been more guarded, but sitting in the dining hall, as Peter was trading caramel chews for someone’s toffee, he couldn’t help but blurt out: “If your father is away for work, why does your mummy have a man in your house?” 

He covered his head as the hip bump he gave one of the metal shelves sent a tissue box falling onto him. He sighed and propped himself up on one of the boxes of cleaning supplies. Peter had locked the closet door, of course. Which wouldn’t be a problem if the overnight porter hadn’t called out sick. Jones was a very nice, elderly porter who was used to finding Sherlock sitting amongst his supplies and was currently one of the few adults with whom Sherlock had a decent, constant relationship with. Maybe it was his age and the fact that he was ignored by most of the student body, but Jones didn’t mind Sherlock’s strange ability to pick up on his personal life. Who else was going to discuss trading cards and rugby with the old man except for the curious little boy whom he escorted to the headmaster at least 3 times a week, at 10:30pm on the dot? 

Now with Jones unable to free him from the confines of the closet (and approaching hour two of being isolated there), Sherlock was starting to get nervous. It wasn’t helping that the young boy was fidgeting and crossing his legs, feeling the urge to use the non-existent closet loo. He really didn’t want to resort to desperate measures - but the thought of being locked in the closet all night wasn’t helping his bladder either. 

It was dark, too. Shadows flickered against the walls and in the corners of his vision. He took another breath and voiced his courage out loud. “It’s just a shadow. It’s just an image in my head.” 

His small voice rang out in the closet with no reply. He swallowed thickly. Similar to solitary confinement, Sherlock’s mind started playing tricks on him. Sherlock would jump and turn to face an invisible sound, looking for invisible people. He crossed his fingers and hoped that Jones was just delayed due to an emergency, not knowing the truth of the porter’s illness and his inability to free little Holmes. 

Sherlock couldn’t help the whimper that reached his throat. He was scared. He was scared to admit that he was scared. But as his back ached from hunching over, his bladder itching for relief and the sounds his brain was creating, Sherlock felt lost and alone and terrified. As he started recognizing that he was afraid, he felt his lungs tighten in anxiety. 

“Is anyone out there?” he called in too soft a voice, trying to pry words from his lips in an attempt to distract himself from the panic attack. “Hello?” 

Suddenly, the door handle rattled and Sherlock yelped, backing against the boxes. There was jovial laughter on the other side, followed by the door being pounded on. Sherlock covered his ears, trying to convince himself it was his mind rather than a real-world horror behind the steel hinges. 

“Hey, shithead! You still alive in there?” 

“Peter!” Sherlock cried in relief. “I-I’m sorry for whatever I did, can you please let me out?” 

“Fuck you!” came the laughing reply, followed by a sudden kick to the door. There was a chorus of laughter following the kick. 

Sherlock, lacking some of the social etiquette lessons that were taught last year (forgetting the useless to make brainspace for his science classes, which he was thoroughly enjoying), racked his brain for the right plea to his bully to allow him to be released. 

“Please, Peter,” he said, blinking rapidly as his eyes began to water. “Please?” 

“Not until you piss yourself and go mad in there!” Peter barked back, followed by the cheers of his school gang. 

Sherlock curled in on himself, letting the tears roll down his round face and covering his ears to block the noise of the taunting. His breathing was shallow and rapid. 

Suddenly, the noise stopped. He uncovered his ears. He heard the faint footsteps of the boys fleeing the scene. Then, the softer wiggle of the doorknob. 

“Jones?” he whispered, his voice not allowing him to speak louder over his soft, stuffy crying.

The door opened to reveal three figures standing in the doorway. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock cried, jumping off of the boxes and into his older brother’s arms, freely crying now. 

“Sherlock, did you wet yourself?” Mycroft asked in an even tone, devoid of panic or concern. Thirteen years old and already speaking like a young adult, that was Mycroft. 

Sherlock responded by clutching onto Mycroft’s sweater and wailing into it. 

“I’m sure you can escort him back to the dorms?” the headmaster asked. 

“Yes sir,” Mycroft said plainly. 

Sherlock turned to peak from Mycroft’s sweater, looking at the headmaster. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft already warned the younger boy, knowing exactly what was on Sherlock’s mind. 

“Why are you sad?” he asked the headmaster, noting the diminishing puffy eyes and the handkerchief tucked in his left pocket. “You were crying four hours ago - is it because your sister is-” 

“Enough, let’s get you to bed,” Mycroft intervened, pushing the little one away from his sweater and pulling him down the hall by his hand. 

Sherlock rubbed his wet, itchy eyes, trying to ignore the embarrassing dampness in his trousers. “I was just trying to make Peter my friend, I swear it.” 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, worn by his constant retrieval of his younger brother from the clutches of teachers, classmates and a disappointed headmaster. “You can’t make friends. Holmes children weren’t meant to have friends.” 

Sherlock solemnly nodded before dragging his feet back towards his quarters, footsteps bouncing off the silent hallway walls.


	8. Stab Wound

It was an accident - no one saw it coming. Suspects already booked by the police weren’t supposed to have weapons. Sherlock should have seen it but before he could react, the knife was already reflecting the overhead lights. By the time Sherlock moved his head, the suspect had launched across the table. By the time Lestrade and John registered what was happening, the knife was already in Sherlock’s cheek, the texture of metal making contact between his teeth. 

By the time Sherlock fell backwards, hitting his head against the interrogation room wall, John was already across the table, lunging at the suspect like a lion after prey. 

Sherlock watched with careful eyes, time slowed down by the adrenaline spike in his blood, as John vaulted over the table. His eyes were focused. He noted the silent rage that painted itself in the form of a snarl on the doctor’s lips. His right arm was curled back behind him, a pose that signified (logistically) a powerful punch. However, the pose to Sherlock also signified (emotionally) a warrior in battle. Sherlock might as well imagine a steel spear in John’s hand, with John cast as an archangel, flying into battle for Sherlock. 

In reality, John just saw red - flying over the table and landing a hit so solid on the man’s jaw, the suspect fell over his chair and went tumbling to the ground, knife dropping nearby, which John kicked out of the way. 

Lestrade was quick to assist, taking over the suspect with Donovan while John switched gears and went to Sherlock. 

John propped Sherlock up and held his face in his hands, examining. Sherlock tried to speak but his jaw locked up in pain and all Sherlock could do was sputter with his mouth clenched shut, dribbling blood and saliva down his chin. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” John repeated over and over, “It’s your cheek, he didn’t get your skull.” 

Sherlock whimpered and sputtered again. God, he hated the fact that he couldn’t articulate. He hated being in pain slightly more. 

John pressed some sort of cloth to Sherlock’s face, he wasn’t cognizant enough to recognize what it was. “An ambulance is on its way,” John said calmly. “I know you don’t like hospitals but you need surgery right away.” 

Sherlock tried to groan beyond his lips, to convey some sort of dark humor about the situation and his dislike of hospitals - but again, all that came out were choked noises and more bloody spittle. He looked up and found an anchor in John’s eyes, which had concern written on them like a mural; but also that strong resolve of a doctor in his healing element. Sherlock understood why John must have been such a comforting presence in the eyes of his patients.

He knew he was going to be alright. 

Actually, he didn’t know. 

He knew he was going to be alright when he looked at John. 


End file.
